The Last House Guest(33)

By eleven, I still hadn’t heard him, and I started to wonder if he’d been home at all this morning. But at five after the hour, I finally heard the garage door sliding open, the faint turnover of an engine, the wheels slowly easing down the driveway before fading in the distance.

I waited another five minutes just to make sure he was gone.



* * *




I STILL HAD THE key from the lockbox. I could’ve sneaked in any of the doors—front or back or side—but thought it would look least suspicious to go straight in the front. I had already come up with an excuse if seen: I was checking the electricity after we’d had a few outages, before calling in a service appointment.

After I entered, I locked the door behind me. The house looked much the same as when Parker arrived. Barely lived in. A single person could leave such little impression here. The house was the definition of sprawling, with large areas of open space. Places to sit and watch the water.

I figured I’d be able to spot a box of Sadie’s things pretty easily down here.

At first glance, it seemed that Parker hadn’t left her things in any of the common rooms downstairs. His coffee mug was on the counter, an empty carton of eggs beside it.

A pile of neatly stacked mail sat on the corner of the island, most addressed to the Loman Family Charitable Foundation. Parker must’ve retrieved it earlier in the day—their local mail was always held at the post office until they returned. The envelopes had been slit open, with the receipts and thank-you notes for your continued support separated into piles. Each from local causes—the police department building fund, the Littleport downtown rehabilitation project, the nature preservation initiative. All their generosity reduced to a sterile pile of paper.

The only other disturbance to the perfection were the throw pillows on the couch, where Parker had been sitting when we were here together that first night.

I headed upstairs next, taking the wide curving staircase. At the right end of the hall was Parker’s bedroom, which I checked first. All the bedrooms upstairs faced the ocean, with sweeping floor-to-ceiling doors that led to private balconies.

Parker’s room looked as it always had—bed unmade, empty luggage in the closet, drawers half closed. There was no box in the closet. Just a couple pairs of shoes and the faintly swaying hangers, disturbed by my presence. Same for under the bed and the dresser surfaces. I opened a few of the drawers to check, but it was just the summer clothes he’d brought with him.

The next room was the master, and it appeared untouched, as expected. Still, I did a cursory sweep, looking for anything out of place. But it was immaculate, with a separate sitting area, a bright blue chair beside a stack of books that seemed to be picked more for design than reading desire, all in shades of ivory and blue.

Sadie’s room was at the other end of the hall upstairs. Her door was open, which made me think someone had been in here recently. But nothing looked out of place. I knew that the police had been through here, and I wondered what else they had taken. It was hard to know what might be missing if you didn’t know what you were looking for.

Her bedspread was smooth and untouched, the corner of the beechwood headboard where she usually hung her purse now empty.

I’d assumed her family had taken her personal items, along with her clothes, back to Connecticut. But the back of my neck prickled. There was just enough of Sadie left behind for me to feel her still. To look over my shoulder and imagine her finding me here. Sneaking up on me, light on her feet, hands over my eyes—think fast. My heart in my stomach even as she was already laughing.

I turned around, and the air seemed to move. It was the layout. The acoustics. A design that showcased the clean lines but also revealed your presence.

The first time I’d slept over here, I’d woken to the sound of a door closing somewhere down the hall. Sadie had been asleep beside me, one arm thrown over her head—completely still. But I thought I saw a flash of light through the glass doors to her balcony. I’d slipped out of bed, felt a floorboard pop beneath my feet.

I stood in front of the windows, so close, my nose almost pressed up against it, peering out. My eyes skimmed the darkness beyond my reflection, straining for something solid. It was then that I saw the pale shadow over my shoulder, in the second before I could feel her.

What are you looking at? Sadie stood behind me, mirroring my position.

I don’t know. I thought I saw something.

Not possible, she’d said, shaking her head.

I understood what she meant as I stepped away. The only thing you could see in the windows at night was yourself.

Now, when I peered out those same windows, I felt the shadow of her there, watching.

Her attached bathroom still had an assortment of products, shampoos, conditioners. A hairbrush. A container of toothpaste. An assortment of glass vials, more for decoration than practicality.

Her desk had gotten an overhaul in the last couple years, tucked into an alcove that used to be a sitting area. She had started working full-time remotely last summer, and her desk was sleeker now, wired for a laptop and a printer. It was the place I’d once left that note, along with a box of her favorite fudge, that I’d driven an hour down the coast to get. An apology and a peace offering.

At the start of last summer, Sadie had been my boss, technically. The person I reported to, at least. Before Grant decided I could handle all of the logistics of the Littleport properties on my own, and she had been reassigned.